


You Can't Be Cereal

by zeski



Series: Sterek tumblr ficlets 2020 [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22832110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeski/pseuds/zeski
Summary: 3AM. Stiles needs his cereal no matter what. Even if it means fighting strangers, finding a new friend, and full use of an amazingphotoassgraphicmemory.Or something like that.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Scott McCall, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski
Series: Sterek tumblr ficlets 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611229
Comments: 14
Kudos: 172





	You Can't Be Cereal

**Author's Note:**

> Accompanying [post](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190947621585/you-cant-be-cereal).
> 
> Based on this tumblr [post](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/post/190948024260/skatepunkscottyarchive-fic-where-they-know-each).

“What?”

“You heard me, _amigo_ ,” Stiles reiterates, puffing his chest out. The guy is still taller and buffer than him, but at least he can pretend to stand on equal footing. “You want it, you fight for it.”

The stranger’s eyebrows knit together. His wary look could mean a multitude of things. From Stiles admitting to (unironically) enjoying Cats the live action to confessing licking doorknobs in his neighborhood every Tuesday. Any closer, and dude’s eyebrows might end up as a fucking Christmas _sweater_.

“You’re in pajamas,” the guy says instead.

If it’s meant as an offense, he’s way off. It’s 3AM. Stiles’ cupboard awaits him empty at his apartment. He’s in his old Pokémon slippers because he couldn’t find his shoes, and his head is heavy as fuck from a rough sleep. There’s exactly one box of cereal—that’s not even his favorite brand—in this grocery, and some dude has the audacity of _trying_ to take it from him.

His pajamas are the _least_ of Stiles’ concerns.

“You. Me. Floor,” he lists, pointing to each of them in order.

Now, this isn’t meant half as wrong as the dude’s cocked eyebrow makes it seem. Granted, it’s still a 3AM fight over a box of cereal, so Stiles doesn't know what else could be wrong about any of this. Even if he tried his damndest.

Stiles clears his throat, then slaps his (still) puffed-out chest. It’s his best attempt at making himself somewhat intimidating. He guesses the Pikachus on his foot (the right one missing its eye, on top of it all) put him in disadvantage, but what’s that, if not the spice of life? That’s what got his bloodline of warriors through the eras.

Mathematically speaking, there has to be _some_ warrior in his family tree, so he’ll trust the numbers, that—just like hips—don’t lie.

“You heard me, buddy.” He gives the stranger a once-over, and wishes he hadn’t. He’s now noticed that dude is barefoot, and that size shoe gives too much fodder for his imagination on top of the low-hanging sweatpants. “We’re fighting for this box.”

Cereal Guy (he needs a name, okay?) folds his arms over his chest, proving that days of bench pressing and scott curls do pay off. (Nice!) Then, he simultaneously sighs and rolls his eyes so hard, he might as well be able to peer into his past lives. (Not so nice.)

“Can’t you just give it to me? And stop making this more of a twilight realm thing than it already is?” Dude asks, massaging his temples between his thumb and middle finger. In a way, this kind of exasperation reminds Stiles of his beloved dad. “We’re already at the grocery store at the butt crack of dawn. We don’t _need_ this.”

“ _Maybe_ you’re right. And maybe the first quarter of your suggestion is tempting, and I would be inclined to, depending on your phrasing, but I _need_ my cereal, sooo...” Stiles stretches his neck left and right, immediately regretting the loud cracking noises to accompany it. “It. Is. On!”

Cereal Guy’s eyebrows knit together again, and by now they might as well have produced a scarf, gloves, and socks to make it a complete Christmas set. Perhaps even a goddamn blanket. Is it common occurrence? Or is it because of the cereal situation? Hard to tell which one.

“Are you okay?” Cereal Guy asks with a grimace. Yup, he’s _totally_ heard the noises of Stiles octogenarian's bones.

“If you think you’re taking it, dude, you haven’t been more wrong in your life!”

This is definitely the beginning of cramps in his neck, but Stiles will ignore it for now. If he wants his cereal, he has to assert dominance. This guy won’t be intimidated by height, weight, or arm size. (All of which he _clearly_ outclasses Stiles.) If all fails, Stiles will resort to the old _“what’s that?”_ tactic and run for it like a shoplifter. Which he’ll inevitably be, though, in this case, he can always come back later and pay for it at a more reasonable time.

That’s the advantage of shopping at your best friend’s mum’s grocery store at some ungodly hour: you can always pay later, at some godly hour.

“I don’t care if you’re big, packing hard muscle, or even have great cheekbones and eyebrows, and what could be a bright smile (if you stopped frowning for a fucking moment, seriously),” he carries on, cracking his knuckles. “You’re _not_ taking this box.”

And maybe Stiles’ advice works faster than he’d anticipated, because Cereal Guy’s expression goes from potentially murderous to a deer caught in headlights committing tax fraud on a Christmas night. Stiles senses a theme here, even though it’s still fucking April.

“Are you—” Cereal Guy clears his throat, recovering from his initial high-pitched tone. “Are you hitting on me?”

“I work with facts, my dude. _Facts_ ,” Stiles replies. He has no idea why he slaps Cereal guy’s chest with the back of his hand like a car vendor, but he does it. “It’s not my fault that you’re incredibly fine and I happen to have functional eyes.”

He nods unsure. “Like we’re two adults fighting over a box of cereal before sunrise.”

“Exactly! Glad you can follow facts and logic!” Stiles beams. “Now, if only you can be reasonable and”—he watches the gray tank top get peeled off with just one arm and hit the floor—“get shirtless, I guess? I mean, that works for me, if you don’t mind. ‘Cause I _totally_ don’t.”

Stiles suspects he has to blink at some time, but right now it’s impossible. His eyes sweep over toned pecs that are ideal for naps, and abs that he could do all his laundry on. He just tries avoiding going any lower, because he notices v-lines meeting much lower than he’d expect a waistband of boxers to be. Not to mention the peculiar outline of _complete freedom_ imprinted on the guy’s sweatpants.

It’s a bit too late to correct that he had arm wrestling in mind, isn’t it?

“Let’s get this over with,” the stranger tells him.

“Derek, you can’t just take your shirt off in here,” a third voice warns.

Oh. Good, ole McCall. For a moment there, Stiles forgot all about him. Maybe if a certain best friend decided to act like a real bro and help him with the dude with the most perfect pecs, he’d have remembered said best friend. Granted, Scott’s earlier intervention would mean no shirtlessness, so he’ll let it slide this time.

Scott frantically scratches the back of his head. “Where are you two going with this?”

“Commando,” Stiles blurts out. He lifts his gaze, only to find Scott and—did Scott say Derek?—Cereal guy looking at him like he’s spoken some ancient language. There’s more judgement in this grocery store than waiting in line behind a baby in their parent’s arms.

You get hypnotized by _one_ nice bulge, and suddenly everyone acts _holier-than-thou_. Gee. Thanks, guys. Cast the first stone who hasn’t checked a good dick out in their life. Or at least he _thinks_ it’s a good dick, because he can’t tell without seeing it—

“I got a big dick.”

Albeit sudden, confirmation is nice, Stiles guesses. Dude’s already blessed in every other department. What kind of cruel deity get lazy and forsake a nice specimen like this, right? Simply go Michelangelo and give the man a tiny one? That’d be unforgivable. Blasphemy, even.

And Stiles is about to congratulate this Derek guy on winning in life’s lottery in general, when he notices Derek’s eyes on his chest.

“You read that wrong.” Derek leans forwards a bit. “You read that wrong, too.”

Stiles pinches at his old t-shirt, holding the text up for himself, deflating visibly.

“‘I got a dig bick. You that read wrong,’” he reads out loud. “‘You read that wrong, too.’”

Never before one of his own hand-picked clothes betrayed more. Like, his point probably still stands, but knowing it’s all a result of his error-inducing shirt is a low blow.

A _hard_ , low blow to his own _dig bick_. Ugh.

“I mean, we’re just deciding who gets to take that last box,” he tells Scott. “But forget that— you know him?”

“Mom and Derek’s mom went to school together.” Scott crouches down and picks Derek’s shirt up between pincer-like fingers. “You can’t get naked here,” he reiterates, pointing to a sign that prohibits entrance to anyone shirtless.

“Let the man get comfortable, for fuck’s sake, Scottie!” Stiles yells, slapping Scott’s hand away.

It hits with more force than necessary, and he’ll apologize later, but right no one’s getting between him and a nice view of Derek’s muscles. Oh, and he supposes he should focus on his cereal instead, but his chances of victory _are_ slim. Much more productive is to enjoy the gun show. Just look at Derek’s ridiculous biceps— those can choke him.

They also can _choke_ him, but that Stiles won’t reveal. There’s enough judgement to go around _without_ exposing his preferences. Preferences that Derek seems to tick every single box—and add a few extra ones—but again, it _is_ 3AM at his best friend’s mom’s grocery store.

Stiles strips his misleading shirt off, shoves it into Scott’s arms and readily falls to all fours, sticking his ass up in the air.

“You, be the referee. You, top me,” he says, pointing to Scott, then to Derek. “Let’s get this match started!”

Derek purses his lips in a thin line. He’s ready to say something, opens his mouth to do so, but then closes it again, sighing rather audibly.

“I’m... pretty sure that’s _not_ what’s called,” Scott says flatly. “And why does everyone keep getting half-naked?!”

Stiles twists his neck in an uncomfortable position. Believe it: if he could turn it 360 degrees, he would. Go full Regan MacNeil and shit on his unhelpful friend. Maybe pee on the floor, too, since Scott’s all about _bickblocking_ him.

 _C’mon._ He’s trying to settle an issue of utmost importance, and Scott isn’t helping much. Who cares about technicalities? He’s watched enough Olympics to know what’s it all about— sweaty dudes grinding and rolling on the floor.

“Who died and made you a fucking referee?” he asks, daggers darting from his eyes at Scott.

“You did? Just now, actually. Not _died_ , but—” Derek makes a vague hand gesture. He exchanges a pained look with Scott, and both sigh in unison. “Is he _really_ your friend?”

“ _Best_ friend,” Scott corrects. “I’d die and kill for him. Except for all the times I’d also _kill_ him.”

Derek nods. “Cold, but... understandable.”

What in the actual hell? So now it’s a _let’s-gang-up-on-Stiles_ kind of day, huh? Fine! _Fine._ Just more the reason to grab his—he’s earned it by now—cereal box and run for it. He’ll pay later, sure, but only because Melissa is rad. Were it Scott’s grocery shop, he’d think twice before paying back.

“Stiles, this isn’t even your favorite brand.” Scott inspects the box in question. “Can’t you just go home and share it?”

 _Wait._ Has Scott just suggested the suggestive suggestion Stiles thinks he’s suggested? Not that the prospect of taking Derek home isn’t a fun one, but... Here’s the thing: he’s not taking every hottie he fights over a box of cereal at 3AM home. Granted, it doesn’t happen often, so he wouldn’t have statistics to compare to.

Y’know... numbers don’t lie and all that jazz.

Stiles frowns. “Are you saying—”

“He’s living in your building,” Scott supplies. “He’s the guy above you, okay?”

Stiles scoffs. He’s damn sure he’d remember a guy like Derek above him. Beside and under him, too. That’s not the kind of thing he’d forget easily. (Or ever, really, if the clues he’s pieced so far have led him to the right conclusion.) But then, Stiles does remember the apartment above him has been occupied recently, and—

“Pick this up for me, please,” He asks Derek. His hands make quick work, snatching the box from Scott, and placing it on the floor. “One catch: no bending your knees.”

Again, the shared, judgmental look between these is unsettling. Stiles already hates their friendship, he decides. Now that former Cereal Guy has turned out to be his best friend’s hot acquaintance (or whatever), he plans on bringing up the topic later. Especially because he feels judged twice as much, since Derek’s ridiculous eyebrows are like a third person altogether.

“Like this?” Derek asks, bending over. His sweatpants stretch over the curve of his round ass, and yup, that’s absolute freedom underneath. “Now what?”

Stiles lifts both forefingers up. “Hang on. Hold the pose.”

His thumbs and forefingers form two L’s that he puts into a frame formation. He has to be thorough, and so Stiles sits up, scrutinizing Derek’s ass from every angle. The shape, the volume… he’s seen it before, for sure. Not properly introduced to it, but he’s seen this ass before. A perky ass that should be difficult to fit into your usual skinny jeans without some wiggling. Almost—

“This circumference... this perkiness... You’re fae! Finest Ass Ever!” Stiles exclaims, snapping his fingers together. “I’d recognize this fine piece of ass anywhere! Superb ass, by the way. 10/10 would bang.”

Derek turns around with a small leap. “Excuse me?!”

“I saw you grabbing boxes from that blond chick’s white van. The cute one with that femme fatale air about her,” Stiles explains, even though Derek’s eyebrows only seem to further question his sanity. “I hid after she caught me staring. Never got to see your face, but your ass is in here,” he adds, tapping a forefinger to his temple.

Scott takes advantage of Derek’s bewilderment to shove the discarded shirts back into their arms.

“I promise he’s not as bad as it seems... depending on how much you’re willing to overlook,” he tells Derek with a smile that quickly fades away. “Which... I hope is a lot. Seriously, dude.”

Since Derek agrees on sharing the cereal, Stiles calls off the search for a new best friend. After all, it’s a quarter to 4AM, and he’s going home for breakfast with his hot neighbor. And if Derek gives him a piggyback—because he’s lent his Pikachu slippers—it’s the best outcome he could hope for this morning.

“Just out of curiosity: are we still fighting later?” Stiles asks, trying to catch Derek’s eye. “It’s not imperative, but if we are, I SO suggest Turkish oil wrestling. Apex of male bonding right there, albeit a little... oily.”

Derek heaves Stiles higher onto his back. “Is it me, or are you really eager about wrestling?”

Although Derek can’t see it, Stiles shrugs. It’s been quite an eventful hour. Between a deathmatch over cereal (that he doesn’t particularly enjoy) and visiting his new neighbor, he’s not sure of anything else. Like, _ever_. Except maybe for how warm and comfortable Derek’s back is. Even his sleep is returning to him.

“Dunno. Maybe you should, I don’t know—” he leans closer to Derek’s ear, “— _wrestle_ me and find out.”

“I’m gonna drop you—”

“—home, yes. Thank you, dearest neighbor.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For inquiries on prompts and AUs, reach me @[zeskiyo](https://zeskiyo.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or @[zeskiverse](https://twitter.com/zeskiverse) on twitter.


End file.
